


like music made just for you

by Nununununu



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attraction, Din "Dinsaster" Djarin, Family, Getting Together, Human Grogu | Baby Yoda, M/M, Mutual Pining, Single Parent Din Djarin, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-25 11:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30088302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/pseuds/Nununununu
Summary: Struggling with writer's block, single dad Din finds himself with a fair amount to juggle, but he wouldn't trade his life for anything given the delight that is his son - and his son's primary school music teacher honestly doesn't follow that very far after.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 39
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GuenVanHelsing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuenVanHelsing/gifts).



> A gift for the wonderful GuenVanHelsing <333 Din wears hoodies here because of GuenVanHelsing's gorgeous art and with love to all the lovely people who've mentioned them over on the DinCobb server - many kudos to the person who first came up with the idea and my apologies I'm not sure who that was ToT XD <3
> 
> Rated for later on in the fic. My first time writing some of these characters. Grogu is written as neurodivergent in a way that's very close to my heart #smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din has a perhaps regrettable accident, but this isn't really about that. Mostly, anyway.

“ _Shit_.”

Din stares at himself in disbelief in the mirror. How in holy hell had he – His hair is _pink_. So it had been a little bit of a vanity project, yeah yeah, he’ll freely admit it; he’d spotted the hairdye a couple of shelves down from Grogu’s vitamins last time he was at the pharmacy and Grogu had made excited noises when Din, half-embarrassed and half-amused, had run the possibility by his five-year-old son and, well. He had a little cash left over from the week’s shopping, enough to buy both the dye and Grogu a treat, and still be within budget. Din had always said back in his long ago and maybe not-so-wild uni days that he’d dye his hair _sometime_. Be adventurous. He could do it! He wasn’t boring! Except – maybe he’d kind of liked being boring if the alternative was having hair quite such a shade. Not that there’s anything wrong with the colour. He’s just not sure about it on him. Specifically on his hair. Especially when the dye was just meant to turn it a _lighter brown_ , and he’s got to leave in seven minutes to go and pick Grogu up from his after school music group and will be expected to make at least a small amount of small talk with other parents and caretakers and Grogu’s _immensely hot music teacher,_ fuck.

Last time, Cobb had requested the adults turn up ten minutes early and then had roped them in to singing along with the kids, while he simultaneously played guitar, a foot drum and harmonica and made it look effortless. The time before he’d been playing a banjo while Grogu volunteered to ‘help out’ and had somehow made Din’s son’s efforts to join in sound _amazing_. The time before _that_ Cobb had been at the piano when Din had arrived, while the kids managed to not only remain seated in their semi-circle on the carpet and pat their little handheld drums as they sang and played along, but also achieved a harmony Din had admittedly never imagined a bunch of primary school kids could – all right, so he’s fallen into the habit of turning up early to collect Grogu from the group, whether requested to or not. Cobb’s only ever shot him a smile on catching sight of Din hovering outside the door to the school’s music room and tilts his head to indicate Din should come on in rather than hang out in the otherwise deserted corridor.

It’s not the highlight of his day. That’s waking Grogu up gently in the morning and seeing his little face break into a smile as Din asks him if he had sweet dreams. That’s waving to his son as Grogu skips into school and Grogu pausing once he gets through the doors to turn and call “I love you, Papá” back to Din, who echoes “I love you” while his heart feels too big for his chest. That’s collecting Grogu again after school and the paintings or frog clay figures or sticks or whatever it is Grogu has to pass over to Din to hold for him and tell him all about as they head home. That’s sitting next to his son at the dinner table and eating together, Grogu slurping his spaghetti and insisting on a combination of all sorts of unlikely things, and Din giving him a bath afterwards and seeing him ready for bed. That’s reading him a story and kissing his little forehead and – oh everything. Everything about his son is the highlight of Din’s day. His work isn’t entirely bad either, even if it’s been dragging of late, something kind of blocked in his brain. Still, he’d hardly go to say work is a highlight.

But seeing Cobb is swiftly becoming _another_ highlight, and heart-expanding in its own way. Even if Din probably shouldn’t be thinking this. Grogu seems to adore Cobb even more than the rest of his teachers and talks to all Din’s friends and his own at length about his music group, even to the kids who were also there. Din adores seeing his son so happy and thriving, detailing about how exactly he blew a great big raspberry and then an equally big note on the French horn they each got to try out or how he made up a tune on the glockenspiel or how he’s composed his own song about seaweed. Din got the chorus to that one stuck in his head for a _week_. Cobb had not only written up the lyrics to each child’s song and formed them into a little music book with hand drawn illustrations for the kids to add to and colour in and keep, but he’d had each kid who wanted to play their songs to the group in turn or else Cobb played it while the kid sat next to him, if they preferred, and then they played the songs all together as a group a second time, with everyone joining in. Having requested permission, Cobb had made a recording and Din had taken to listening to Grogu’s song – and quite often the entire thing – while he washed up after dinner ever since.

Anyway. Pink hair. Seven – no, four – minutes now until he’s got to leave to collect Grogu and it’s raining outside. Din knocks his cup of cold coffee over, curses, and saves his laptop at the last minute – left open in case inspiration had arrived and the paragraph he’d been working on had become miraculously unblocked during the hair dyeing experience, which it notably hadn’t. Throws a kitchen cloth over the puddle to keep it from spreading, shrugs into a hoodie and curses the fact he’d intended to dress better, something not too dressy like he was trying hard but also something not quite so casual and especially not stained on the cuff from one of Grogu’s ‘experiments’ like this hoodie is. Scrabbles to locate the keys to his ancient car, fails to leave the puddle of coffee until later and dashes back to clean it up quickly, remembers Grogu’s favourite Pokémon plush and tucks it carefully into a pocket, and wobbles into his boots before hopping out of the flat and locking the door behind him. Half falls down the stairs, realises he’s forgotten his glasses – he can’t drive without them – thanks the heavens for the spare, ungainly pair kept in the car for emergencies, and vows to remember to take them off before going into the school so Cobb doesn’t see.

Of course he forgets.

Traffic’s frustratingly worse than usual, perhaps because it’s raining, and so not only does Din fail to be early like he was planning, but he’s also a few minutes’ late, something that’s never before failed to set both his and Grogu’s nerves on edge. He’s anticipating Grogu’s pointed, furious silence or angry howls as he hurries into the school and down the corridor towards the music room. But there’s Cobb still in there along with Omera and Winta, Grogu perched on the piano stool while blowing very seriously into a kazoo, while his best friend laughs and threats to tickle him unless he stops, both adults looking nothing other than fondly entertained.

“Sorry I’m late!” Din all but falls into the music room after determining that he’s damn well _not_ going to make any kind of an entrance but just sidle sheepishly in, an intention he completely fails to succeed in given his foot kicks the door jam, the door does its utmost to shut itself on his face, and Din has to do a flailing kind of hop not to stagger sideways and crash into the door frame. Which is – great, really, it’s great. Especially as everyone stops what they’re doing to look at him.

“Papá, plushie!” His usual greeting done with, Grogu takes a second look and crows in delight, “Hair!”

Oh shit, in his moment of hellish embarrassment, Din had actually forgotten about the pink hair.

“Y-yeah,” Ruffling said hair a bit weakly and discovering it’s wetter than he’d hoped from the rain – so pink and probably suspiciously greasy-looking to boot – Din grimaces the rest of the way into the room, desperately hoping for someone or something to draw attention away from him, and then belatedly realises he’s still wearing the ‘nerd’ glasses, or so Winta has named them with – according to Omera – apparent affection. Din can’t say he’s got a problem with being called a nerd – or not by his son’s best friend, at least. But that doesn’t change the fact that these glasses really don’t suit him.

This shouldn’t be something he’s concerned about – he’s just picking up his kid from his music group, nothing more to it, and at least the glasses haven’t fallen off his nose and cracked on the ground like the last pair. Which he then accidentally stepped on. But still, there _is_ something more to it or at least it feels like there is given how fast his heart is beating as he fails to resist the urge to peek over at Cobb.

And hot _damn_.

Now would be when Din realises the other man’s wearing a leather jacket, so Din’s clearly kept him as well as everyone else waiting. It’s almost difficult to remember to keep on being sorry for this even so, because given said leather jacket, Cobb’s looking even _more_ than usual like sex on legs even if those tattoos on those arms Din is so desperately interested in are covered up. Damn, he’s wearing those fitted jeans that suit him so well too, the school having a fairly relaxed dress policy for its staff that Din probably shouldn’t feel so grateful for right now.

Anyway, yup, so Cobb’s looking like sex with very long legs. Still, Din also probably shouldn’t be having such thoughts about Grogu’s music teacher. Not in front of his son and his son’s best friend and her mother, at least. Probably not in front of Cobb himself either, really.

Okay, hell.

“Mr Djarin?”

Damn fucking shit, Cobb’s hair and beard are looking even _better_ than usual – has he done something to them or is it just Din? And damn fucking shit, but Cobb’s getting up from where he was crouching next to the piano stool and is approaching Din. And quite possibly talking to him. Hell. What do.

“You okay there?” Damn it, there’s concern in the other man’s voice and gaze as he comes to a halt near where Din’s all but frozen on the spot. Cobb gestures over to where Grogu’s now attempting to tickle Winta or possibly just poke her in the arm with the kazoo, while she flaps her hands to fend him off, both of them laughing like anything while Omera keeps an eye. “Grogu’s been just fine, as you can see.”

“That would be a first,” Din says without meaning to and then realises just how bad that sounds, “I mean – he hates me being late even more than _I_ hate me being late.” He has to take a breath in; Cobb’s not standing that close, but it feels like it. And being the focus of the other man’s attention makes his heart race even more than it is already and his palms a little damp. “I _am_ sorry. I got caught up in –” _Dyeing my hair_ just sounds awful and irresponsible, and it wasn’t precisely that. “I got caught up. It won’t happen again. Please call me Din.”

“No worries, it was only a couple of minutes,” Cobb’s gaze flickers up to the soft pink of Din’s hair and while he’s still mostly wearing his professional teacher face, the expression slips for just a moment into something almost fond and _definitely_ gently amused. Swallowing whatever he might think about the colour to Din’s combined relief and regret, he only comments, “You’re dripping.”

Taken out of context that would be –

“U-uh,” Din can only be grateful the other man’s already turning away, given the fact it feels like so much blood floods to his face he almost reels. He finds a surprisingly soft towel tossed over his head a second later, partially dislodging his glasses.

“What?”

“Oops sorry,” Cobb raises his hand in offer, kindly waits while Din has a minor internal panic attack about the fact _he’s about to be touched, that Cobb is about to touch him_ , and then realises that it would help if he consented to it, and nods his head.

Cobb touches him.

“Let me just –” Closing the space between them, he deftly adjusts the glasses so they’re no longer in danger of suffering the same fate as those previous ones. Then he steps back, “There you go, Din.”

He –

He said Din’s name. Din drags a huge, shuddering lungful of air in, peeking at Cobb from beneath the towel still on his head, not having a single clue what he’s going to say except that he’s going to say something – possibly word vomit about just how fucking gorgeous this man is in front of him –

Oh damn and that would be inappropriate right now for more than one reason, not in the least because –

“Grogu!” His son’s name bursts out of him with a sort of strangled gasp.

“Papá?” Having snuck up to Din’s side completely without his father realising, Grogu pauses in his quest to unearth his plush from Din’s pocket, face scrunching up in the way that signals either tears or a tantrum are liable to come.

“No, no,” Everything else forgotten, Din swipes the towel off his hair as he crouches down to reassure him, “I’m not mad. I just – realised we won’t have enough time for your program if we don’t get going.” Damn it. “So we’d, uh.” Damn it, couldn’t he have come up with something different? “Better – get. Going. Yeah.” _Fuck_.

Although it’s very nearly true. Their routine is that once they’re home, Din will fix them a light supper while Grogu plays and then they’ll eat together, before Grogu snuggles up on the couch with his plush to watch the child-friendly bedtime stories program on Din’s laptop that he adores while his father cleans up. After that, bath time and bed. Any deviation from this and the laptop might find itself in danger of being kicked or Grogu hiding in the small tent in the corner of his room he’d made into a den and steadfastly refusing to come out regardless of coaxing, gentle scolding or anything else.

Better to avoid a meltdown.

“I’m sorry,” Darting another look up at Cobb and finding the other man looking back at him with an indecipherable expression that melts into one of understanding, Din picks Grogu up to settle him on his hip as he stands back up.

“Papá, _program_ ,” Burying his face in Din’s neck as he hugs the plush to his chest, Grogu insists.

“I’m on it,” Din answers Cobb’s nod with one of his own, “Say thanks to your teacher now.”

“Thanks,” Grogu emerges from Din’s neck long enough to shove the plush towards Cobb, not a request for him to take it as many as person Grogu has done this to seems to think – which will result in screaming unless Din hastily moves back to prevent the seeming theft – but as a demand Cobb acknowledge it.

“Sure thing, Grogu,” Cobb takes the towel back from Din when Din remembers to pass it over, _not at all_ mourning the fact their fingers don’t brush, “You have a good night now.” He gives the plush a little pat on the head Grogu not only accepts but squirms happily about, “You too, Plushie.”

Plushie makes a meeping sound courtesy of Grogu and is drawn back in against the child’s chest.

“You too, Din,” Cobb’s still smiling at Grogu as he says this, and so it takes Din a second to register it when the other man’s gaze raises to meet his.

“Er –” He’s a _writer_ ; surely he could for once be eloquent, “I what now?”

Apparently not. Also the nerd glasses slide down on his nose again.

“Have a good night now,” Cobb’s smile is inching into an outright grin, “You want me to –?” A nod at the glasses.

“Um no,” _Yes_! Din flusters at once, bringing up his free hand and near slapping himself in the face in the attempt to get the glasses back in position while _very much wanting_ Cobb to touch him again and cursing himself for the automatic reaction, “I’m okay. You’re okay.” Wait. Cobb’s way better than okay. “You’re way better than okay.” Wait, he didn’t mean to actually say that! Fuck!

“Dad,” Shit, Grogu only calls him that when he’s annoyed with him. Another squirm of the small body in Din’s arms, although this time it’s in protest, “ _Program_.”

“Y-yeah,” Din takes a wild look at his son, a wild look at Cobb, nearly swallows his tongue as it hits him just how good looking the other man is all over again and at just _how very close_ they’re now standing, and represses the urge to apologise again.

“You are too, Din,” The wrinkles around Cobb’s eyes deepen with the strength of that grin, although he’s mercifully not looking for a moment, setting the towel aside and picking up a couple of things to put away, “Way better than okay, I mean.”

“U-um,” Din’s brain would stall at this altogether apart from the sudden realisation that Omera and Winta are in fact still present in the room along with the three of them, Omera kind enough to be getting Winta ready to leave over the other side as if both of them aren’t well aware of the fool Din’s making of himself. Also, they’re all meant to have left promptly so that Din can give his son’s best friend and her mother a lift home in return for Omera doing the same for them last week, and he and Grogu can get back in time for that program.

“We’re going to walk today,” Omera tells him, when Din’s nearly tripped on his laces in the effort to get over there to apologise to her as well, grab Grogu’s coat and get him into it, and detach his son from his shoulder for long enough to do this all at once. Winta reaches up to pull Grogu into a hug good bye as Omera shoots a little look over at Cobb, who is readying the room for use when school starts all over again the next day. Omera’s smile is far too understanding when she glances back at Din, “We’re going to stop for an ice-cream treat in the new place that’s opened up, so we’ll skip having a lift this week.”

Chances are that this plan is taking place today purely to allow Din to get Grogu home in time for his program are high.

“I’ll give you both that lift after the next group,” Immensely grateful, Din accepts Grogu back from Winta, gets the coat on him with only a small amount of trouble, locates his son’s missing shoe – kicked off at some point while Din’s been holding him – sends a look that hopefully isn’t _too_ yearning in Cobb’s direction and flushes all over again at the little salute the other man gives him. Then Din’s hurrying out of the room, narrowly avoiding getting himself on the doorframe again, dashing to his ancient car and driving home with an eye on the speed limit and a wince ready prepared all the way.

They make it just in time for Grogu to watch the program while eating his dessert, a compromise Din is only relieved to be able to make.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Din is totally cool and smooth around Cobb, absolutely.

His hair is still pink when he goes to collect Grogu from his music group the next week. The colour’s faded a bit or perhaps he’s just become slightly more used to it, although Din’s still taken to tugging the hood of his hoodie up or wearing the hat Omera gave him – chosen by Grogu and Winta after school on Monday evening, when Omera watches over Din’s son so Din has a set time to sort out fun non-writing things like bills and assorted paperwork, a favour he returns by taking both children out for a treat at the weekend.

It’s a cowboy hat, broad-brimmed and ridiculous, and Din’s adamant he’s not going to wear it out of the house, only submitting to donning it at home when Grogu and sometimes Winta are there to insist. The writing’s still not happening, a couple of pages of not-very-good paragraphs all he’s managed to churn out, and he’s considering having something fatal or at least nasty happen to the protagonist simply to avoid acknowledging that he’s probably going to have to start again. It’s not that kind of book though unfortunately – unless said protagonist were rescued from near death by a handsome stranger and nursed lovingly back to health again, hmm –

Staring blankly at the laptop, Din considers the merits of shifting the location to somewhere that it would be feasible said handsome stranger could get away with being a certain grey-haired tattooed cowboy –

Uh wait. Okay no, he probably shouldn’t be imagining Cobb wearing the cowboy hat. And not much else. Or nothing else –

Gaze clouding over, Din’s mind stalls completely for no small while.

Shit, he needs to go collect Grogu in ten minutes and this time actually give Omera and Winta that lift. Nine minutes. Shit. He hits save on the laptop, realises he’s pressed delete instead, does something frantic key-tapping to get the not-very-good paragraphs and possible handsome cowboy introduction back, _actually_ saves his writing and then does the usual frantic hunt for the car keys.

Maybe handsome cowboy will have a – a motorbike instead of a horse or something. Din writes what others would call romance novels and what he does his utmost to never refer to as anything. So. It’s feasible this could happen. Cobb rides a motorbike, right? Din, uh. Totally hasn’t noticed this.

Anyway, fucking shit, Din should not seriously be contemplating writing a softcore romantic cowboy version of his son’s music teacher in his novel. Even if it might get him past the block, could be just what the plot needs to not only revive it but actually bring it to life, and is _really fucking tempting_.

Although as Din absolutely refuses to consider himself as being in any way similar to any of his characters, he might then end up suffering from some entirely minor jealousy regarding the dull ass protagonist Reuben, who might not actually be so dreadfully bad if Din could just figure out _what to do with him_.

Shit. Fuck. Three minutes!

He gets out of the door, locks it, realises he’s still in his socks, gets the door opened again, snatches his glasses off his nose, realises they’re what Winta’s dubbed his _cool_ glasses, puts them back on again with a little relief, grabs his boots, just about avoids breaking his neck on the stairs while hurrying down them at the same time as trying to get said boots on, realises he’s not locked the door – fuck – dashes back up to do so, and is nearly having a heart attack by the time he gets down to his ancient car and has to calm down enough to drive it.

It doesn’t want to start. So that. That is great.

Cobb keeps the school phone in the music room for parents and guardians to contact him if there’s an emergency. Staring unseeingly at the car dashboard, Din wonders whether this counts as it. Careful not to squish the little soft keyring charm Grogu made for him and that will forever have pride of place accompanying Din’s keys, he tries to get the car started again another few times and all but cries a little when it concedes. His hands are shaking as he pulls out of the parking place and gets on his way.

After all this, he somehow ends up a little _early_ to the group, early enough to be unconsciously sighing in deep relief as he steps into the school.

The music echoing down the corridor from the music room is nothing other than _beautiful_. Din’s heard Cobb play before, the man seeming to have a knack with any instrument he seemingly just so happens to pick up, but this is – it’s something else. It’s not someone else playing it, Din’s sure of it. There’s something to the way the person plays the guitar that just makes Din think of the other man, that seems so very _Cobb_. It makes Din’s boots feel almost weightless as he walks towards the music room as if caught in a dream, forgetting all his minor stresses about his writing and money and Grogu’s latest temper tantrum and the fact the toilet in their single bathroom keeps threatening to back up.

Cobb plays – Din peeks around the door to the music room and confirms it _is_ Cobb playing, while the kids have their heads bent over what looks like colouring, and Din just –

He just breathes for a while, soaking the music in. Watches the way Cobb’s eyes are closed, his expression at once intent yet relaxed, fine hair falling over his forehead as his head bends over the guitar, his arm almost seeming to cradle the instrument, fingers moving adeptly.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it,” A soft voice whispers in Din’s ear when the music’s coming to an end and Din jumps so badly his teeth clatter as he yelps mortifyingly, slapping a hand to his mouth to muffle the sound.

“O-Omera!” Trust her to sneak up on him.

Sure enough she’s standing close behind him in the corridor, looking entirely innocent as she peers into the room as if trying to make out the picture Winta is finishing, only a tiny curl to the corners of her lips betraying her amusement.

“I-It is,” Din gets his act together – or tries to – feeling it only right to be honest and oddly a little defensive of Cobb as well as his own reaction, “It was.”

“It was,” There’s nothing there but agreement in Omera’s gaze, although she follows this up with, “You should say something to him.”

“Say – something? About his – guitar playing?” Din absolutely doesn’t squeak. He does however drop his car keys.

“Yes,” Omera’s lips are doing that slight upturn in amusement thing again, “About his guitar playing, of course.” Something about the rest of her expression indicates she has more to say on the topic, but the group comes to an end then and Cobb’s waving to them both, gesturing for them and the other adults Din totally hadn’t noticed coming into the corridor behind them to step into the room.

It turns out the kids have been drawing and colouring while listening to different styles of music played on various instruments, and Din is unconscious of grinning broadly while Grogu shows him his much-coloured sheets, enthusing about the loud parts he’d heard and emphasising the scribbled starbursts he’d drawn in reaction, patting them with his little palm to demonstrate the connection between them and the music.

“One for the fridge, don’t you think,” Din rolls the picture up very carefully when his son has finished telling him about it, smiling back at Grogu’s happy nod, and reminds himself to do better than he did after the last group, glancing around for Omera and Winta and totally not hoping to catch Cobb’s eye in the process. He spots Cobb being grilled by a couple of obviously affluent parents – does he perform in public and why not and can they hire him for a wedding they’re hosting at their country house anyway – and Din instructs himself not to listen as he fishes the Pokémon plush out for Grogu, locates both his son’s shoes, gets them and his socks back on him and does his best to do the same with his coat while Grogu lies on the floor like a sausage and pretends to have no limbs.

“Grogu did well today,” Cobb appears at Din’s side after a few minutes, having extracted himself from the couple by means of directing them towards their waiting child, something Din hadn’t been aware of in his peripheral vision in the slightest. He crouches down next to Grogu, “Hey, have you told your dad about how you played piano for us all?”

“He only calls me that when he’s mad at me,” Din informs him lowly out of the corner of his mouth in the hope Grogu won’t hear and thus feel so inspired, aiming his son a hopeful smile when Grogu emerges from his pout – the small tantrum for reasons Din has yet to establish – to launch into an explanation of the composition he’d made which had, going by his gestures, involved a lot of wholehearted smashing at the piano keys.

“It really _was_ good,” Cobb assures Din on identifying Din’s apologetic wince.

“Glad to hear it,” Din gets the impression Cobb genuinely means it. Scooping Grogu up off the floor with the unspoken offer of a hug, smile deepening when his son scrabbles up easily to accept it, Din murmurs into the child’s soft hair, “I’m proud of you, Grogu.” He really, really is.

“ _Papá_ ,” Grogu shoves the plush in Din’s face.

“Thanks for taking such good care of him,” Din continues to Cobb, a little red cheeked, when he’s got away from the determined Pokémon attack and can once more speak, biting his lip as his heart jumps at the realisation Cobb’s gaze is on his face, “I appreciate it.”

“It’s a pleasure; he’s a good kid,” Cobb’s smile is easy and his eyes warm, half-grumbling half-chuckling at his own expense when his knees crack as he rises back up to his feet, “Need a hand?” He offers one to Din.

“U-um,” Like Din’s going to turn down the chance to touch him. Cobb’s not wearing the leather jacket today, given the group’s only just finished, the sleeves of his red shirt rolled up to display the tattoos Din wants to run his eyes over hungrily, while letting his fingers explore the bracelet around the other man’s wrist.

He just takes the offered hand instead and lets Cobb draw him to his feet, Grogu secure in his arms, and feels his ears burn and stomach flutter when the other man doesn’t immediately draw away.

“Hair’s still pink,” Cobb’s gaze drifts upwards to Din’s head. He’d pushed his hood down on entering the school, however much part of him itched to keep hiding behind it, so –

“Yeah,” Din vaguely considers pretending it was intentional and then gives it up as a lost cause, “I, ah. I don’t think I dare risk trying to dye it back to the original colour so it seems like I’m stuck with it.”

“Looks good on you,” Smile crooking to one side, Cobb’s fingers twitch as if tempted to reach up to touch Din’s hair, Din’s lungs immediately cramping as he instinctively holds his breath. “You thinking of buzzing it off?” There’s something there in his gaze.

“No?” Din has honestly considered it, but – well. Maybe it’s vain of him, but he likes his hair – most of the time anyway – especially the way it feels when it gets long enough that the soft curls fall around his face. It’s perhaps unexpectedly – comforting. Gives him something to hide behind, in a sense. Shaving it off would just make him feel exposed.

“ _Good_ ,” Cobb’s shoulders seem to relax a bit, “That is – It’s your hair, partner. You can do what you like with it. Just –” He looks a little self-conscious for the first time that Din’s noticed, “Guess you might not believe this, but the colour really does suit you.”

“Um,” Fuck, Din hasn’t felt this purely happy because of anyone other than Grogu in – in – he can’t even remember how long. It takes him a moment to realise he’s ducking his head and biting his lip again, harder this time, “Th-thanks. I wanted to say –” Omera had said to compliment Cobb on his guitar playing, right. And it had been incredible enough that Din really does want to say _something_.

“Mm?” There’s another parent moving to stand over to one side with the clear desire to speak to their child’s music teacher, someone Cobb shoots a glance over at even as he steps very slightly nearer to Din as if perhaps telling himself to move away and failing. Or maybe that’s just Din.

Damn, Din needs to speak quickly; he shouldn’t be keeping him from his job, _fuck_. The room is mostly empty now, just Omera speaking with Winta about her drawing as well as the other parent and their own two children, but still. Grogu worms down from Din’s arms to scamper over to his best friend, leaving Din alone with Cobb momentarily.

“I –” Of course this is when his words dry up completely and Din’s left like the equivalent of the cursor on an open writing document, blinking expectantly on a blank page, “You –”

“You and me?” Cobb’s smile is good humoured, his body language open and inviting, one hand propped on the hip at such an angle Din has to struggle not to focus on it exclusively. Forcing his gaze to remain up where it should be, he catches Cobb grimacing faintly in apology, “Din, I’m sorry but I really should –”

Din can barely hear past _you and me._

“Yeah you go speak to the, uh – I’m sorry, don’t mean to –” Din _is a writer_. He should be able to form sentences with some sort of cohesion if not comprehensibility.

Or considering his current block, apparently not.

“I’ll see you and Grogu next week, right,” Cobb is giving him that little salute again, the one Din tries very hard not to notice that he’s never seen the other man give to anyone else, and shakes himself back into hopefully being able to function.

He still comes close to falling over a corner of the circle-time rug and cracking his head open on a table when he forces himself to start to turn away, but it’s okay, it’s okay.

“You all right?” Cobb’s back there immediately at his elbow to help right him, the other parent briefly abandoned while Din manages a nod, putting his hand to his head to check it’s still on, his face aflame at his clumsiness, not even having the excuse of not wearing his glasses. He technically shouldn’t _need_ to wear them at times like now, but instead it’s possible he might actually need to get stronger lenses. Sounds better than him just being so distracted by Cobb’s hotness that he failed to function his own feet. Right?

Although wait, thinking of his glasses – where have they gone? Din’s close to his budget this month already. If he’s gone and stepped on his ‘cool’ pair he’s going to be doomed to the nerd ones until he can somehow save up enough –

“Here,” Cobb’s pressing them into his hand, fingers warm and real and _wonderful_ against Din’s palm for a second, brushing over Din’s own fingers as the other man pulls back, leaving Din with an embarrassing noise that promises to be a whine collecting in his chest.

“T-thanks,” He chokes it back down, and then Cobb’s grinning at him and jogging back over to the other parent, making his apologies.

“I really need some ice-cream right now,” Din decides, when he’s crossed the room safely to join Grogu, Winta and Omera, ducking his head to avoid the knowing look the latter is giving him, although he can’t help smiling a bit even so when she nudges him, “Grogu. Would you – What do you all think about going out for a quick dinner? My treat for everyone.” He can manage it if he puts off taking the car to the garage Boba and Fennec run until next month. Din rubs Grogu’s back encouragingly as Grogu pauses in the attempt to do his coat up all on his own in favour of staring hard at his father, his gaze assessing, “Promise we’ll get back in time for your program.” If his son really does object though, Din will go without his much-needed ice-cream fix and suggest they all go at the weekend instead.

“Plushie wants ice-cream,” His decision made, Grogu agrees very solemnly, once more shoving the plush in Din’s face, while Winta and Omera chime in with their own agreement, the new ice-cream place not far from a takeout place that Omera claims she’s confident the staff will let them stay in and use their single table for just long enough for the kids to eat something savoury first without needing to go home and then back out again, something Din knows full well would result in a great amount of protesting regardless of the reason where Grogu’s concerned.

So this is what they do indeed do. And if Cobb finishes talking to the other parent and flashes a look over at Din and then Omera as the small group head out of the music room, his gaze just perhaps a tiny bit disconsolate, well, he soon has a smile and a wave for Grogu when the little boy pops his head back up over his father’s shoulder to wave good bye to his music teacher.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accidents involving clothing occur, Din doesn't throw anything on himself - the second time around - and manages to conduct a conversation without anything too terrible happening. Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An as yet untagged pairing introduced here :) A bit of a longer chapter.

The impromptu outing is fun and worth it especially for Grogu’s delight on being allowed to make an artistic creation out of his dessert before wolfing it down, providing he keeps the food within the confines of his plate, and the ice-cream fix is what Din needs to revive his brain to an extent.

But a fair-sized portion of said brain can’t help but keep circling around the thought of just how _very_ much he’d wanted to invite Cobb to come with them and how it would have been even _better_ with the other man here, and how Grogu would no doubt have appreciated it – and it was quite possible Winta and Omera probably wouldn’t have minded either. But Din had already kept Cobb from his work that bit and Cobb no doubt had other things he’d rather be doing, such as getting home after his day’s work – or going out somewhere else for his own evening, perhaps with friends or –

Or his other half.

Damn.

Poking at the last mouthful of his softening dessert with his spoon, the world around Din fades out for a moment as he considers the fact that his son’s music teacher must have a whole other life that Din’s not aware of – which Cobb’s only quite rightly entitled to – and that said life might well already include someone else. Just as it had felt like it would be skirting what’s appropriate to ask his son’s music teacher to come with them to the ice-cream place, this doesn’t exactly feel like something he can just casually enquire before or after the group. Even if that affluent couple had given off the impression that they probably _would_ have fired such a question at the other man without any qualm. There’s no way Din would have wanted to have Cobb feel put on the spot or like he had to answer something personal.

And asking Cobb out for ice-cream would have felt –

Like _asking him out_. Yeah.

“You should say something,” Omera leans over to murmur into Din’s abruptly reddening ear as he manages to not only smoosh that last mouthful with the spoon but also catapults his plate right off the table and onto his lap to the accompaniment of Winta’s half-impressed and half-scandalised expression and Grogu’s cheer at the apparent new game.

Thereafter required to hastily prevent his son from attempting the same, Din thankfully manages to avoid responding to that – although really by now, he should know better than to think he gets away with it.

“ _You should_ _say something_ ,” Omera’s not one to let things go, popping up as if from nowhere behind him to insistently hiss a week later, when Din’s occupied with juggling his car keys, a takeout coffee and a large box of the cupcakes Grogu made over the weekend and they frosted after school yesterday. It’s the last music group of the year before the small performance the kids will do at the end of the school term.

“Gah!” Not having expected to be ambushed while trying to balance everything and get out of his car, Din yelps, bashes his head on the edge of the door frame and would very much flail except for the fact he’s trying frantically not to drop everything. Should have just done the sensible thing and got out the car first before picking everything up afterwards. Such is hindsight.

“I’ve got you,” An unexpected voice says that totally isn’t Omera and then Cobb’s _there_ for some reason, there and adroitly saving the box of cupcakes, while Omera is laughing slightly and mouthing something at Din that looks very much like _you’re welcome_ before heading into the school.

“I, ah, I, thanks,” Din gets out, trying not to have a heart attack because _hell_ Cobb looks just as good as always, _hell_ he’s wearing the leather jacket again and a red scarf this time along with it, _hell_ he’s close enough that Din rather thinks he might be able to smell him and _hell_ but he smells _damned good_. “I, um.” Okay, that’s enough of that. Din scrapes himself together as much as possible, sags back against his car even so and only remembers at the last second he hasn’t shut the door yet and so nearly tumbles back in. “Why aren’t you teaching our kids?”

Crap, so that really, _really_ didn’t come out like he intended it.

“Got a couple of special guests in today,” Cobb gives Din a look like he’s wondering if Din’s okay. No – wait, no, he’s not. He’s looking at Din as if he’s almost wondering whether he’s messed up a little. As if he’s almost wondering if Din’s mad at him. _Damn it_. “You saw it in the school newsletter, right?” Rubbing at his beard, Cobb’s grin appears only to promptly slant a bit in a way that has Din unable to keep his mouth from trying to tug into a tiny smile of his own in response, “In fact, you know I’m sure I remember you saying something to me back at the beginning of term about them being your friends.”

Fennec and Boba. Fennec and Boba who together keep Din’s car functioning despite the fact it should have probably been taken off the road years ago, who are amongst the few people Din would openly call friends, who’ve played music together in their own time as long as he’s known them and who he was over the moon to hear had volunteered to play for the kids at Grogu’s music group.

Who had told Din all about this, who had told Grogu – who’d been just as delighted – and who had told Cobb all about it, even though, as the music teacher, the other man had undoubtedly already known. And indeed this had happened at the beginning of term. Which Din had been wound up about coffee and cupcakes enough to apparently forget all about.

Shit.

“Pair of them banished me out here a few minutes ago,” Cobb quite casually reaches out to adjust the cup in Din’s hand just in time to prevent Din from unintentionally dumping coffee all over himself, “Said they wanted the kids all to themselves for the last bit of class to do some kind of something and me being a soft touch I went and agreed. I was just going to sneak in again and check the lot of them are behaving themselves, but –” He gives Din a look that seems to take in all of him, from Din’s boots to his hoodie to his still pink hair, a look that makes Din burn inside however much he tries not to react, “But now you’re here, so. Much as I might like to delay a bit and stay speaking with you longer, I still should check. Want to head on in there together?”

“They might be, um,” Transferring the cake box under his left arm and the coffee to his right hand, shaking his head gratefully when Cobb raises an eyebrow in the unspoken offer to take one or the other, Din shuts the car door with his hip, waiting just long enough to hear the lock click shut automatically behind him – the contrary mechanism for once deciding to actually work. Falling into step with the other man, he adamantly tries not to think about the fact that Cobb’s waited for him and that Omera very deliberately left them together, and that there’s a non-zero chance that Boba and Fennec might be in on it. Reminding himself he left off halfway through a sentence, Din licks his lips, hotly aware of Cobb catching him doing it, “They might be planning to surprise you with something.” Which he probably _shouldn’t have told Cobb about_ , damn it. “Sorry. Now it won’t be a surprise.”

He’s an idiot. Fuck.

“Real sweet of them if they are,” Cobb’s pleased expression looks wholly genuine and not at all put out, “Promise I’ll be sure to act real surprised,” His eyes shine a little with good humour as he opens the door to the school, gesturing for Din to go first. When Din shakes his head, Cobb retaliates by indicating the cake box and coffee and so wins, Din acquiescing only to near drop everything all over again in the attempt to swing around and hold the door open in turn for the other man.

“You sure you don’t want me to get any of that for you?” Once the door is safely shut behind them, Cobb asks lowly, both of them quietening given the sound of the kids running through a section of music a couple of times fills the corridor.

“Not, um, not yet,” Din says, which probably gives a fair amount away, so he relents yet further and presses the coffee into Cobb’s hand, pretending fervently that Omera isn’t studiously examining her phone further down the corridor in the illusion of giving them privacy. Or maybe that should just be giving _him_ privacy. Because Cobb. Cobb isn’t interested in him like that, right?

Or – maybe right?

“It’s for you,” Deciding he might as well go ahead and admit this much, Din takes in as careful a breath as he can, concentrating on holding the cup determinedly steady this time as he waits for Cobb to reach out for it, “I might have. Spotted the cup you usually keep on your desk and uh. It looked like it had milk in. You _do_ take milk in your coffee, yeah?”

“Sure do,” The look Cobb’s giving him is a smidgen quizzical, but also looks like he might just be trying not to seem something like a little hopeful and potentially very touched, which has Din’s heart all in a flutter.

“Well,” Having to wet his lips all over again, Din’s cheeks flare with heat when Cobb’s eyes drop to his mouth, “This is. Um. Coffee.” Nicely done, Djarin. “For you.” No, he’s already said that. “To go with the cakes. That is. They’re not all for you, sorry.”

Oh _hell_. Din’s really screwing this up, isn’t he. Further down the corridor, Omera looks like she’s trying not to do that lip-press-of-amusement thing and like she might just be dying a little inside on his behalf, even as she scrolls on her phone with deliberate concentration. Wrenching another breath in, Din tells himself to get a grip. On the cake box as well; he is _not_ going to drop that.

Managing to keep it aloft, he also thankfully just about succeeds in mostly not squashing it.

“Right. So. Okay. Grogu and I made cupcakes. Because it’s the last class before the performance. That is, Grogu made them and I helped. Or. Uh. Grogu mostly made a mess and I helped,” Pride in his son has Din hasten to correct, “He did a really good job and only got half the batter everywhere, and even helped clear that up.” His son had pushed a wet rag through the mess and then made handprints in what was left over, which totally counted. “There should be enough for everyone, including you. In fact, we made you three.” Or rather _Din_ had made Cobb three, while everyone else other than Grogu got two. “Grogu will probably want to give them to you himself. I should have waited to let him do so and have it be a surprise as well.” That had, in fact, been the plan. Din manages a sort-of laugh even as he berates himself. “I’m screwing this up more and more, aren’t I. Hopefully at least the coffee won’t be cold.” It had felt okay through the cup when he’d been holding it, the little stopper in the lid trapping the heat.

Ugh. _Hopefully_.

“Still feels hot to me. You ain’t screwing anything up, Din, cross my heart,” Cobb’s not using his professional ‘teacher’ look or voice right now, “I can be surprised about the cupcakes too, if Grogu would like that. Got to say I sure do appreciate them and the coffee. It’s real, ah. Real good of you both.”

“You’re welcome,” Din’s voice comes out quieter than he intends, quite possibly more of his feelings showing on his face than he ought to allow. It’s so rare for him to hear Cobb trip over his words a bit. And he’s not imagining it, is he – Cobb’s stepped that bit closer to him. Or Din has to him. Near enough that if it wasn’t for the cake box and the coffee they could put their arms around each other.

How Din wants to do that. To lean into Cobb and feel Cobb lean into him. To press their foreheads together. To kiss the other man and hook his fingers into Cobb’s belt, a-and –

“Vanth! Get your sorry ass – uh, your sorry _self_ here and listen to what these kids have come up with for you!”

The holler makes the both of them jump. That would be Fennec, the door to the music room opened and her head popped out to aim a hard stare at them both, while Omera, caught in the firing line, blinks up at her from her phone.

And that’s Omera’s _impressed_ and _interested_ face. Din’s going to have to tease her just a little about that.

He gets the decidedly impression the glance Fennec shoots at Omera is mildly distracted but nonetheless equally interested.

“Hmm,” Judging by the crooked smile on Cobb’s face, he’s seen this too, “All right, I know when I’m summoned.” He gestures down the corridor with the coffee cup, “You coming?”

“Y-Yeah,” Din gets his feet sorted out on the second try and then they’re walking together as Omera heads into the music room before them, ushered in by Fennec’s hand on her shoulder, Din and Cobb following after the two women.

The music the kids play turns out to be a piece Fennec and Boba have helped them to come up with as a way of saying thanks to their teacher for the term’s sessions before the school-mandated performance next week when they won’t have the opportunity to do such a thing. Din sits next to Cobb when Fennec steers him there with a grip that won’t take no for an answer, waving to Grogu instead of acknowledging Boba’s small knowing grin. Cobb seems more moved by the kids’ music than he tries to let on, thanking them wholeheartedly and asking if he might be allowed to join in on playing it a second time, along with any of the parents and guardians gradually arriving and slipping into the back of the room. A couple take him up on the offer, Din not amongst them, although he acquiesces when Fennec presses a small drum into his hand and Grogu breaks away from the circle of kids to scramble up onto Din’s knee with the intent of helping his father operate the instrument, something Din is only too glad to allow him to do on Cobb’s nod. The other kids join their adults too and then everyone is playing, Din doing to best to join in on each of Grogu’s pats to his hand, feeling a little less clumsy and self-conscious after a while, especially as Grogu’s clearly enjoying himself and he gets to listen to Cobb play on the violin this time, the man seeming even _better_ at it than all the other musical instruments Din’s seen him play aside from the guitar, and it’s a toss up when it comes to that.

“Fiddle’s one of my favourites,” Cobb reveals in answer to Grogu’s earnest enquiry when the little boy bounds over afterwards when everyone’s had a cupcake or two to his immense pleasure, and Boba and Fennec have packed up their instruments and made their goodbyes, the other adults starting to lead their children out of the room with smiles and waves. Waving back to them and speaking briefly to a few, Cobb lets Grogu pluck at the strings and have a go at the bow, although Din removes the latter gently from Grogu’s hands when the kid next makes an attempt to use the bow as some sort of laser sword complete with buzzing sound effects.

“I didn’t know that,” Helping straighten a few chairs after that, Din leans his hip on the side of a table and promptly berates himself because how _would_ he know.

“Sure is,” Cobb just smiles at him as he raises the violin to his chin to pluck an impressively complex and immediately catchy little tune he makes look effortless and that has Winta running back in from the corridor to dance with Grogu, while Din pretends his face doesn’t heat and his stomach doesn’t tighten, as the music teacher playing music really shouldn’t be something to have such a reaction about.

Even so, the compulsion to watch the muscles move in the other man’s bare forearms is too much to resist, the leather jacket shed when Cobb came in from outside. Din wrenches his gaze away from those tattoos after a few seconds, swallowing as the tune ends and smiling helplessly at Cobb almost without realising it, biting the inside of his cheek when Cobb smiles back.

The moment’s broken by Omera ducking back into the music room to collect Winta, the pair going out for ice-cream again, Din giving his friend a look that promises later questioning about Fennec and to which Omera just smiles and raises her eyebrows as if she has no idea what he means. Once Cobb’s put the violin safely in its case, Din crouches to whisper to Grogu to fetch the three cupcakes he’d made sure to set aside, given Cobb had been watching over his charges to check they ate neatly and safely, and hadn’t had any for himself at the time.

“Look Mr Vanth, for you!” Grogu offers them up to his teacher, very pleased.

“Why thank you,” Cobb presses his hand to his heart, crouching down as well to be on the little kid’s level and accepting them with obvious appreciation and care, exclaiming over the bright green frosting and Grogu’s admittedly haphazard decorations.

Din couldn’t be prouder of his little boy.

“Papá have some too!” Grogu then decides to instruct very sternly, which isn’t how it’s supposed to go, but Cobb’s smile stops Din’s objection before it makes it out.

“There’s three, right,” Addressing Grogu, he hands one to Din’s son and then holds another out to Din, aiming a steady look at Din until he reluctantly accepts it, “So that makes one each.”

“We have more at home. These were meant to be _for you_ ,” Din is absolutely not pouting about it. And – oh. There’s something not so fun he needs to acknowledge. “You know Grogu’s only signed up for this term, right?” He strokes his son’s soft head, glancing down at the boy as Grogu makes a little murmur, an ear clearly trained on the conversation even if his tiny face is buried in his cupcake as he makes happy-eating humming sounds.

The sad truth is writing doesn’t pay enough that Din can afford to enrol Grogu in more than one after school group per term; it can be a challenge to cover unexpected bills as it is.

“Grogu’s really loved coming to this music group,” It really is true. Din can feel his throat threatening to block with how much he doesn’t want to admit this. But he does want to explain, “He’d love to continue it too. But we’ve talked about it and he’d like to try out the art group next term.” This is also true. Grogu’s had _so_ much fun. Still Din has the distinct impression that his son will love all the opportunities the art group will provide him too. “I’d honestly love to enrol him in both, but. I’m sorry.” He shrugs a bit helplessly, “You know, money.”

“Hey, no need to apologise; _I’m_ real sorry the fee is out of my control,” Straightening up with a crack of his knees he doesn’t comment on this time, Cobb looks genuinely regretful, “I honesty wouldn’t have folk pay a thing if the school didn’t need it to keep running the group. Promise I’ll let you know if I ever get anywhere with arguing for them to make exceptions depending on peoples’ circumstances.” For all his brow wrinkles he also smiles as he turns to Din’s son, “Going to miss seeing you here next term, Grogu, but I’ll see you around the school otherwise, yeah? And when you’re a bit older we’ll have music class together during the day. I bet in the meantime you’re going to enjoy that art group a whole lot, right? I just know you’re going to be brilliant at it.”

“Right!” Darting forwards, Grogu latches onto his teacher’s leg in as wide a hug as he can manage, little hands smearing frosting just about everywhere they can reach seemingy in the second it takes for Din to blink.

“Shi– I’m mean uh, _sugar_ , I’m sorry,” Wincing, he looks around hastily in search for a cloth or even that towel and finds neither in sight, “Grogu! Look, you made your teacher’s clothes messy.” He strokes his son’s head to show he's not cross when Grogu’s face falls, “I know it was an accident, but do say sorry to your teacher. ”

He’s adamantly not thinking about those long legs or those jeans or how they could possibly be made _messy_ in other ways. Not now, anyway. Even if the thought feels _very_ much worth contemplating.

“Sorry,” For all Grogu can get silly about apologies sometimes, he turns his little face up woefully to his teacher now and twists his hands together in regret.

“Hey, it’s no trouble; no harm done,” Cobb goes for a chair rather than crouching back down, “Only thing I’m sad about is that that delicious frosting didn’t make it into that belly of yours.” This gets a small giggle from Grogu, the little boy relaxing. “You want to go teach Plushie to play the piano a sec?”

“Yeah!” Grogu rushes off enthusiastically, plush proudly held aloft in one small sticky hand.

“I should have washed his hands,” Din internally curses himself, “Sorry.”

“Piano keys’ll clean right up, don’t you worry,” Cobb chuckles lightly, “Trust me, as a school piano, it’s experienced worse than that.”

“You sure your jeans are okay?” Hotly aware that they’re essentially alone together, Din finds his eyes straying back down to those legs despite his best intentions. Because of the frosting and no other reason at all, of course. Those long slender legs that he can just imagine wrapped around his waist or maybe over his shoulders or even –

Din’s brain very nearly goes out for the count.

_Fuck_. 

“Oh hush, I’ve experienced _far_ worse than frosting on my jeans,” Cobb’s busy retorting, which – no wait, he’s got to be talking about _at school_ , right, about the messes _primary school kids_ undoubtedly make and not – and not –

Din very nearly short circuits all over again.

“He’s a good kid,” His gaze thankfully on Grogu, Cobb remarks just as he did that time before, although his gaze is a touch sad as if he will sincerely miss Grogu being in the music group, a possibility that makes Din’s heart both overflow with affection and gratitude, and hurt a little all at once.

“You know, Fennec and Boba _are_ good friends,” He finds himself starting without planning to at all, “They often play together after work and people sometimes join them, make an evening of it. I’m sure they wouldn’t, uh –”

Just where is he going with this exactly? If he still isn’t quite brave enough to invite Cobb out for ice-cream, then –

“They mentioned something along those lines, yeah,” Reaching out a long arm for the undoubtedly cold coffee, Cobb takes a belated mouthful of the remaining half of his cupcake after holding it up in a version of that little salute, “Reckon you know this, but this really is delicious.”

“Th-thanks,” Biting his lip on his smile, Din next experiences the sudden urge to cross his legs at the sight of the other man licking his lips – and then an equally sudden urge to think of some very gross things. Because – time and place, Djarin, _time and place_.

Shit shit shit. He’s just about able to continue talking semi-normally while giving himself a stern mental scolding.

“If you, ah. If you do go to Fennec and Boba’s place sometime, it might be that – Well, Grogu and I sometimes go along as he likes dancing to the music,” It’s what had given Din the idea of enrolling his son in the after school music group to start with.

“I just bet he does,” Swallowing his mouthful, Cobb smiles almost wistfully, “He’s got a great ear for it.” Din can’t help but notice his grey eyebrows rising a bit as if well aware Din’s leading somewhere with this. Inviting him to continue, even.

“So you know,” So emboldened, Din gathers his courage with as steady a breath as he can make it, which isn’t very, “Maybe we might. See you there?”

It’s a struggle not to sound too hopeful.

“Yeah maybe,” The warmth that fills Cobb’s smile and the look in his eyes implies a fair amount more than that echoed ‘maybe’, his expression as he considers Din enough to make Din’s heart start to rabbit away in his chest, “Sounds real good to me.”


End file.
